


Grey Solstice

by Traxits



Series: Shades of Grey [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-25
Updated: 2010-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traxits/pseuds/Traxits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years, he's been living in Ferelden, and finally, one Satinalia, it occurs to him how much he's lost, how much he's changed. Zevran must learn to cope with what it means to live with the Grey Wardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alistair: Promises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theLiterator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/gifts).



> If you haven't read Shades of Grey, all you need to know is that it's set post-game, where Alistair and Zevran are rebuilding the Wardens at Soldier's Peak. Luthanuel is a recruit from Denerim who was one of the first newly Joined wardens.
> 
> Also, this really doesn't fit in the Shades timeline, so I might end up mucking about with that later to correct the problem. Originally Shades began in late winter, ending in early to mid spring. Satinalia occurs on the winter solstice, and I see this little story happening a few weeks after the ending of Shades. I guess I can just shift Shades back so that it ends in early winter to correct the problem though.
> 
> **Satinalia**: In many places, this holiday—once dedicated to the Old Goddess of chaos, Zazikel, but now attributed more to the Second Moon, Satina—is still accompanied by wild celebration. Celebrants wear masks and lose their inhibitions, and they place the town fool as ruler for a day. In Antiva (Antiva City in particular), this festival lasts for a week or more, followed by a week of fasting. In more pious areas, this holiday is now marked by large feasts and gift-giving. _(Quoted from Prima Strategy Guide for Dragon Age: Origins.)_

Alistair woke, bleary eyed and aching, wrapped too tightly around a pillow that he was _most_ disappointed to discover was _not_ Zevran. Grumbling, he shoved the offending thing away, and when it hit the floor, he made a noise, pulling the blanket over his head. Slowly, he rolled over in the bed, reaching blindly for the elf that he _knew_ should be there. His hand found mattress, more mattress, and he rolled just a little more, just enough--

_THUMP._

He lay there for a moment before it occurred to him what had happened. He had fallen off of the bed, the blankets a tangle around him. He struggled to get free of the fabric around him, and when he finally did, he forced his eyes open to look around the room. Reaching a hand up to hold his head, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to the armoire. By the time he was dressed, he was awake, and he found himself jogging down the steps toward the courtyard. Strangely, he was _humming_.

His hand raked through his hair, not really caring if it stood on end or not. No one here judged him for it; well, no one except ... Zevran. A little smile touched his lips, and he leaned against the wall for a moment as he came into the courtyard, where the elf was dueling with Luthanuel. The Warden's long dark brown hair was in a braid that nearly dusted the hard-packed snow, and he was slowly circling, the long sword in his hand held at the ready, prepared to deflect any attacks that Zevran decided to throw. The elf was laughing though, deceptively at ease even with the two daggers in his hands.

It was difficult to believe that they had lived this way for a little over five months, that it had _been_ only five months since the end of the Blight. It felt like a lifetime had passed, a blur of ship travel and organization and the most agonizing three days of his existence. He watched as Zevran lunged, as he slammed first one blade and then the other, continuing his momentum in a deadly spiral. Luthanuel was good, but no match for the assassin.

Alistair pushed off of the wall and took a sword from one of the other Wardens-- all fourteen of the current Fereldan Wardens were there in the courtyard-- and he parted the crowd easily enough. Zevran couldn't see him in the current position, but Luthanuel could. Alistair tilted his head slightly to the side, holding up the blade, and the youth nodded to him before he ducked away, letting Alistair slip into the circle in his place.

Zevran didn't miss a beat, using the moment to regroup, to assume a new guard that would hold up better to Alistair's attacks. His dark eyes flashed, and there was a second of hesitation before a slow smile curved his lips.

"Awake now, Alistair?" His voice was playful, and Alistair couldn't help but to return the grin. He wasn't certain, but he was pretty sure that Zevran had no idea how appealing he looked, his blond hair falling loosely around his face, out of its normal style and simply down. He was wearing his normal winter gear, which every Warden in the keep thought was adorable; he was so bundled up that Alistair wasn't entirely certain how he was moving at all in the snow. In fact, Alistair was certain he could count at least three shirts layered over the elf's lean torso.

"How can anyone sleep through this?" He swung the blade a little, rolling his head to make his neck pop as he did. Zevran was perfectly still for a heartbeat, and then the blade flashed. Alistair was ready for it; they'd been dueling now for close to two years. Zevran almost always lunged in his opening attack, particularly if Alistair didn't have a shield on his arm to block with. Instead, Alistair sidestepped, using the flat of the blade to catch and divert both away, sending the elf right past him.

Zevran tucked and rolled as soon as their blades crashed, easily dodging Alistair's follow-up attack. As he unfolded, one of his hands dropped a dagger, caught Alistair's ankle and sent him crashing into snow. The courtyard was packed hard enough that it knocked the breath out of the Warden, and he couldn't stop himself from letting go of the sword in his hand. He was out of practice, Alistair realized weakly, the sudden pressure of Zevran's second dagger against his throat. He swallowed and then offered the elf a weak grin.

"Yield?" He said it as sweetly as he could manage, trying his hand at offering Zevran one of those gazes the elf was so quick to use on _him_ if Zev thought that it would work.

Zevran snorted slightly, snagged the long sword, and then backed of, his dagger quickly returning to its sheathe. "You always leave yourself open," he said softly as he reached down and pulled Alistair to his feet. The Warden Commander had to agree, as it seemed like no matter how many times they practiced, Zevran was always able to surprise him with a move like that.

"What can I say?" Alistair grinned, reaching back to dust off the loose snow that had stuck to him. When he was on his feet, he watch Zevran hand the sword off to one of the others, and Luthanuel handed the elf his dagger back. It was sheathed as well, and then Zevran was looking up at him, his brow furrowed.

"Did you need something specific, Alistair? Or did you just come out to play in the snow?"

Zevran's face was flushed, most likely with the cold, Alistair realized and he had to resist the urge to reach up to touch the elf's rosy cheeks, to see just _how_ cold he was. Instead, he simply nodded toward the keep. "Walk with me?" he asked as neutrally as he could, not wanting to pressure. He knew he'd been more than just a little clingy since the incident in Denerim, since Zevran had spent ten full days at the mercy of the Crows.

He still hadn't spoken about it, hadn't offered any explanation or confidence as to what happened. Instead, if it was ever brought up, he simply smiled and deflected, saying that he had been trained for such situations. If Alistair brought it up in private, they ended up in a sweaty tangle of limbs on one of their beds. It wasn't necessarily a _bad_ thing, Alistair supposed, but it couldn't be healthy to hold onto it so tightly. He found himself letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding as Zevran fell into step next to him, heading back into the keep.

He guided them both back up to Alistair's room, where the fire still had glowing embers. He took over coaxing it back to life, and after he managed it, he turned in time to watch Zevran peeling off his extra layers of clothing. Three shirts, trousers _and _leggings, and two pairs of socks. Without all of his layers, he looked much smaller, and Alistair walked over to him, drawing him into his arms easily.

Zevran relaxed into the embrace-- he always did-- and reached up, his arms wrapping around Alistair's shoulders. He made the softest of noises, and Alistair pulled him closer, letting him burrow into him for warmth. Zevran's head tilted back _just_ right and--

"Maker's **breath**, Zev! Your nose is **cold**!" Alistair did his best not to jump back, but he still ended up flinching, and Zevran's low chuckle was muffled in his neck as he tried to reposition the elf in his arms. "How long were you out there?" He gritted his teeth just a little as Zevran decided it was imperative to warm his nose as quickly as possible. He was _rubbing_ it over Alistair's collar, deliberately tugging the tunic down as far as he could to reveal more warm skin. Alistair gasped just slightly as cold fingertips joined in the exploration of his chest, snaking under his shirt and touching him softly.

"Most of the morning," was the only answer he got, and when he felt his shirt being peeled _off_, Alistair knew that it was the only answer he_ would_ get. The Warden couldn't stop the faint smile from crossing his face as Zevran somehow managed to get closer to him, to rub that cool-to-the-touch face onto Alistair's chest.

"I missed you this morning," Alistair ventured softly, and he gently pulled Zevran over to the bed. If the elf wanted to warm up, it would be easier to let him simply lay on top of Alistair instead of trying to stand and support them both. Zevran seemed in agreement, because he moved only to take off his leggings before settling down, laying on his side to press that slowly-warming nose against Alistair's chest. Alistair was flat on his back, one arm curled around the elf, his hand slowly moving through the locks of blond hair, absent-mindedly working out any tangles he found.

Zev made a noncommittal noise at first, but as they lay there together and he slowly warmed up, he lifted himself up enough to peer up at Alistair. "Did you?" he asked softly, his expression neutral. Alistair gently tugged on a lock of hair, coaxing Zevran to close the distance between them.

"I did," he murmured softly, his eyes _almost_ closed as Zevran's lips ghosted over his own. They were _just_ out of reach, _just_ barely teasing his own. He buried his fingers in the elf's hair and pulled him down, wanting a kiss, wanting to _taste_ him. Zevran made a very soft noise in the kiss, and by the time Alistair drew back, they were both breathing heavily. He let his fingers trail down and over the side of Zevran's face for just a moment, just looking; savoring.

Then the elf was under him, managing _somehow_ to look both shy and seductive-- it had to do with the way he looked out from under those lashes, Alistair was _sure_ of it-- as he whispered softly, a grin on his face, "Again, Alistair? What will your Wardens think if you keep me in here so often?"

"Let them think whatever they like," Alistair replied softly, moving so that his weight was off of Zevran, so that he was kneeling. Zevran's fingers were already at work, carefully unlacing the front of Alistair's pants-- the only clothing left between them-- and pulling him out, slowly squeezing and working over him, making him gasp, making his hips jerk into the elf's hand. Zevran gave him one more squeeze before he let go, reaching up blindly for the nightstand. Alistair stopped him and took over the job of locating the oil. He'd had enough practice to be proficient in it now, carefully oiling one of his fingers to push into Zevran slowly.

The elf's eyes closed just a little, and, struck by sudden inspiration, Alistair leaned down to draw his partner's length into his mouth while he worked. Zevran's fingers immediately found their way into Alistair's hair, tangling and twisting around the shorter locks. Alistair moaned softly-- he'd only recently discovered that he liked his hair touched so-- and Zevran's hips jerked just slightly against him. He couldn't stop the satisfied sensation welling up, pleasure at knowing he could get _Zevran_ to this point almost as easily as the elf could get him there.

Another finger, another moan, and then Alistair couldn't wait any longer. He was _aching_, and as he pushed in, Zevran's legs hooked over his shoulders, he groaned. He waited for a heartbeat, two, giving his lover time to adjust, time to stretch. Through sheer force of will, he held still until Zevran shifted under him, letting him know it was okay to move. Then he began to pull out very slowly before he sank back in, barely able to breathe through the sheer _tightness_ around him, the _heat_ searing through him.

He was moaning; Zevran was moaning; and he couldn't hear or see anything it seemed. His entire world had focused to the simple feeling of pushing in and out of the elf, of feeling Zevran's hand moving over his own length, the _heat_ sparking between their bodies. Then suddenly everything was shattering, and he couldn't stop it, couldn't prevent his hips from surging forward, his release a sharp extension of the movement. For a moment, he stayed there, and he didn't move until he realized that Zevran hadn't finished.

Then he shifted, pulled out and moved down, pushing away those slender fingers and replacing them with his mouth. He wanted to _taste_ the elf, to feel his release over his tongue. Fingers tugged sharply on handfuls of his hair, and-- _there _it was, salty and bitter all at once. He drew back slowly before he turned and collapsed on the bed, falling face-up. There was just a moment of stillness, then Zevran moved over so that he was also on his back, but his head was resting on Alistair's shoulder. Despite the light sheen of sweat over them both, Alistair folded his arm over the elf, holding him close, needing the physical contact more than he cared to admit.

They lay like that for a long time, just together, not talking, not moving. Finally, Alistair could stand it no more, and he asked softly, "Zevran?"

"Yes, Alistair?"

Almost two years in Ferelden, and Zevran's accent was still strong; if not a hair stronger than it was before. It was as though he were concerned that he might be losing himself to the country, to the Wardens. It wasn't the first time such a thought had come up. Alistair swallowed, not wanting to bring up such a painful topic. Not while they were both feeling so well. Instead, he asked, "What do you want to do for Satinalia this year? We're actually somewhere that we _can_ do something, and I'm at a loss."

Zevran smiled then, and he tilted his head back enough to look up at the Warden. "We are holding a masquerade of course. What else would we do?"

"A masquerade?" One of Alistair's eyebrows raised, disbelieving. "With the dancing and masks and everything?"

"That would seem appropriate, yes. Is that not what you do for Satinalia?" Zevran's expression mirrored Alistair's, just as confused, just as disbelieving. Alistair reached over and brushed hair from Zevran's face, wanting to see it clearly, make sure he was understanding this properly.

"Well, no. We hold a feast. We exchange gifts. A masquerade, really?" Another hesitation, and then Alistair stopped. The _look_ on Zevran's face was one of utter disappointment, another Antivan tradition being stripped away to make room for something more Fereldan in nature. He couldn't do it to the elf, not after everything they'd been through. If he wanted a masquerade, Alistair wasn't about to tell him no. "I've never been to one of those."

Zevran smiled then, his face warming considerably. It was comforting, to see that smile back on the elf's face. There had been precious little to smile and laugh about for almost a year. It was something that Alistair had missed terribly, even though he hadn't been able to pinpoint what it was he was longing for so desperately.

"It's enjoyable," Zevran was explaining, and Alistair made himself actually listen, not simply drift and nod. "The dancers all dress up as various people and-- Who should we invite?" Then Zevran was out of the bed, and Alistair smiled, watching as the elf dressed carefully, clearly thinking of a list of invitees.

"How big do these get?" He asked curiously, pulling himself up to sit and lean against the headboard as he watched Zevran button one of those three shirts.

Zevran grinned, and Alistair felt his stomach sink. "In Antiva City, they can last as long as week before the actual holiday. Smaller communities only celebrate the night before normally though. We can set it where the masquerade is the night before and a feast the day of--"

Then he was gathering up his extra clothes, and Alistair sighed softly as the elf practically ran out of the room, plans whirling around so heavily that they were simply tumbling out of Zevran's mouth as fast as he could think of them. Most likely, Alistair knew that this wouldn't end as innocuous as it began. For some reason, the thought didn't bother him nearly as much as he knew it should.


	2. Zevran: Realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite chapters in the entire series so far. I love it bunches. And thank you, Tasmen, for helping me with the few things that I asked you about. You know what it was.

Splashing was an oddly cheerful sound, particularly when combined with the crackle of the fire, and Zevran sank into the hot water gratefully. He had "borrowed" Alistair's room while the Warden Commander was out with the other Wardens. He had painstakingly hauled water up the stairs to the huge room, ensured that the fire was well fed, and filled the tub. The tub had been the easiest part of the whole process: Alistair kept a huge one in his room, refusing to share it under the guise of it being too heavy to move frequently.

Now, two weeks after he had sent out the invitations to the masquerade, he was leaning back, his eyes closing as he savored the heat and steam from the water, the scent of woodruff filling his nose. It was an indulgence, using a few drops of what little oil he had left. He would be out soon, and then he'd have to see about securing more, which could be a hassle. Only one Dalish caravan that he knew of sold it, and they were in Antiva. It was a bitter thought, knowing that it was only one more thing that would have to be replaced with something more Fereldan in nature.

It wasn't that he disliked Ferelden. Far from it; it was a marvelous country, with its unruly 'freemen' and its rigid system of honor and duty. He trailed a finger in the water, tracing circles. Ferelden, with its strange people who offered second chances to some and immediately slaughtered others, with seemingly no pattern to it at all. He had yet to understand them, to grasp the missing piece that would force Alistair--

It wasn't about Alistair. Not this time. It wasn't about Alistair, or any other Fereldan Warden who had managed to trap him in a situation with no easy way out. For once, it was about himself, about how he had let it happen. He'd seen it beginning in Redcliffe, felt the noose tightening around him in the Brecilian forest, and he had done nothing. He had simply gone along with them, trying to figure them out, convincing himself that he could walk away at any point. That had been two years ago.

He slapped his hand against the water, and a fresh wave of the scent-- a sweet mixture of fresh-cut hay and vanilla-- caused him to still, to gaze into the water, where he could see the faintest trace of the oil on the surface. He stayed like that for a moment-- just sitting, soaking, looking-- and then he reached out to where he'd set the soap on a footstool near the tub. It was a small, cracked piece, a dingy grey, like everything else in Ferelden. He sighed, rubbing his fingers over it, feeling the slightest tingle from it as he did. He missed Antiva, where he could have splurged with an extra coin or two and bought the soap made from oils instead of lye, the soap that _didn't_ tingle or burn when it was used.

Whistling from the hallway caught his attention, and his eyes narrowed as he listened, placing the soap back on the stool. His daggers were with his clothes, under the heavy fabric he had procured to dry off with (old habits died hard, and when those old habits had saved one's life several times over, they died even harder), and he reached for one of them now, still watching the door. There was a moment of quiet, and then the door handle moved, and Zevran thought he could hear a key in it. His grip tightened around the hilt; the door swung open.

"Now, _this_ is what I like to come home to." Alistair's grin was infectious, and Zevran smiled as he leaned back, letting go of the dagger. The Warden Commander shut the door behind him, locking it as he did. Then he started unbuckling armor, setting it all in a pile on the floor. Zevran let his head tilt back, following Alistair with his gaze, forcing himself to relax again. His hand dropped from the footstool, falling to simply brush against the floor. After a few minutes, Alistair had stripped all the way down to just his trousers, and he came over to the tub, kneeling easily enough at the side, one of his hands dipping into the still-hot water.

He drew a deep breath, and his brow furrowed as he looked at Zevran curiously. It wasn't that they hadn't bathed together before-- Maker knew that it had happened often enough when they were trying to end the Blight-- but it was the first time that Alistair had ever seen him in a proper tub. "What is that scent?" he asked curiously, and Zevran shrugged just slightly, looking back down at the water. "It's nice," Alistair added hurriedly, clearly concerned that he'd insulted Zevran, "I'm just not familiar with it."

"Woodruff," the elf answered softly, watching how, with Alistair moving his hand in the water, it looked like Zevran's tattoos were dancing and _moving_ under his skin. It was unusual, even it was something he'd seen before. Alistair looked more than just a little mesmerized by it though, and his hand wasn't moving, just slowly circling, continuing to break the surface to create the illusion. "One of the few things I kept after my experience with the Dalish."

Alistair nodded slowly, and then he seemed to snap out of his trance, because he smiled and glanced over at the footstool, spying the little bar of soap. "Is that all that you have left?" He leaned over the tub, Zevran resisted the urge to pull him in, and Alistair grabbed the soap, pulling it back so that he could look at it. His nose wrinkled up. "Same kind we had to use in the Chantry," he said, and then he stood, taking the soap with him as he headed over to his armoire. Zevran considered arguing, but really, getting anything out of Alistair when he was like this was next to impossible. Instead, Zevran simply let his head roll back to watch the Warden's movements.

The soap was thrown away, causing Zevran's eyebrows to raise, and then Alistair returned with a new bar, one that was an unusually familiar shade of green. When it was deposited in Zevran's hands, he rubbed his fingers over it, pleased to note that it didn't tingle, and he traced an imprint that made his breath catch. Turning it over, he couldn't stop the smile that spread over his lips; _sapone di Marsiglia_. Olive oil and sea water and he wasn't sure what else was in it, but it was Orlesian, made in Val Chavin by a man named Marseille. He knew Marseille as Marsiglia, the name imprinted on the bars to be sold in Antiva. He hadn't seen this sort of soap since he'd left.

"I was going to give it to you for Satinalia, but... you can have it now if I can wash your back."

Zevran's dark eyes lifted to look up at Alistair, who was biting his lower lip, seemingly _nervous_ about the whole situation. The elf couldn't believe it, didn't understand it. Why-- Of course; there _was_ no 'why' when it came to choices made by a Warden.

He hesitated, and then he smiled and offered it to the Warden. Alistair took it, and then he was wetting the rag that Zevran had left laying on the footstool, lathering it up with the soap. Alistair gathered Zevran's hair into one of his hands, twisted it to keep it all together, and he moved it over one of the elf's shoulders, so that he could start washing Zevran's back. A little shiver went down Zevran's spine at the first touch, both at memories and at the feeling of being so open, so _vulnerable_. It wasn't a feeling he got often, but now, in the tub with Alistair at his back, the feel of the rag on his back over the relatively new scars that he would have for the rest of his life...

Vulnerability was one of those feelings that he didn't cope with well. It invariably brought him to a defensive stance, forced him to lash out, to attack preemptively. His eyes closed at the sensation of lips pressing against the nape of his neck. It was soft, affectionate. Alistair was an affectionate person, someone who touched tenderly and often, who _needed_ the touch. Somehow, the chaste kiss did more for grounding Zevran that he'd ever have guessed it would, and he blew out a deep breath, trying to keep himself relaxed.

Within moments, Alistair was humming some tune-- it was vaguely familiar-- and after he rinsed Zevran's back, he moved to the side of the tub. For one reason or another, he chose to return to the side opposite the footstool, and he seemed to realize his mistake just as he got comfortable. It was with a long suffering sigh that he reached back across the tub, and this time, Zevran _couldn't _help himself. Pants on or no, the elf reached up and pulled the Warden down into the tub. The water level rose close to the edge but didn't overflow, and Alistair gasped before he shot Zevran a little grin.

"Really? You couldn't warn me first?" He sighed again, managing to sound as though he were being punished terribly. "Let me get these off; they're going to chafe otherwise." Zevran slowly released him, a smug smile on his lips as he watched the Warden disrobe. Then Alistair climbed back in, obviously accepting that Zevran was going to have his way. "You could have just asked you know." He hesitated before he settled in, straddling Zevran's hips and facing the elf. It was an unusual situation, as normally Zevran was the one sitting there and Alistair would be leaning back.

But when Zevran tried to move, Alistair gently stopped him with a hand on the shoulder, offering a nervous little smile. "Don't move," he murmured, leaning forward to very softly press his lips to Zevran's. It was strangely tender, and for once, Zevran didn't move to deepen it, to push Alistair back and move it into territory that the elf was more familiar with. He simply stayed the way he was, his hands resting on Alistair's thighs, fingers slowly working against the muscles there. One of Alistair's hands lifted to brush the backs of his fingers against Zevran's face.

Slowly, Alistair drew back, and he looked at Zevran; for once, Zevran couldn't tell what the Warden was thinking, and it was more than just a little strange. Alistair was an open book-- one only had to look to see exactly what he was feeling. Zevran sat up a little straighter, reaching up to touch Alistair's arm, then letting his hand trail up to touch the short blond hair. It was getting too long, beginning to fall in the Warden's eyes again. It needed to be cut.

"Alistair." Zevran's voice was quiet, and he slowly pulled his hand down, letting it move to where he held the back of the Warden's neck in his palm. Alistair tilted his head to the side a hair. "Why do you do it?" That wasn't right; that wasn't the real question, but Zevran wasn't entirely sure he wanted to ask the real one.

"Do what?" Alistair's confusion seemed real enough, and Zevran frowned a little, his hand tightening on the back of the Warden's neck. He forced himself to relax, breathing deeply to help himself with it.

He reached over to the footstool, picking up the green bar, holding it up where Alistair could see it. The expression shuttered again, and Zevran's frown deepened as he set the soap back. "Give me things like this. Why do you do it?" He didn't think he needed to point out that since Denerim, all sorts of little things had been left at his door, small things that only someone like Alistair would notice and like. First time had been after an argument over how to deploy the men, over who was to be sent where. Zevran had discovered a tiny bird's nest outside of his door two days later, in perfect condition. It had been oddly appealing, something so small and intricate.

Alistair's brow furrowed. "I need a reason, Zev?" Both of his hands then moved to touch Zevran's shoulders, one of them taking a moment to push the twisted tangle of blond hair to fall back down the elf's back. Zevran opened his mouth, only to have a finger placed against it. "I like giving you things. I _like_ seeing you smile. Is that not reason enough?" The finger moved slowly, sliding over to trace the two lines down Zevran's face before Alistair leaned back.

Zevran couldn't think of anything to say. He couldn't figure out how to make Alistair understand that _nothing_ came without a price, no matter how innocuous it was. He'd learned that the hard way, years ago, before he'd even been initiated as a Crow. It wasn't something he was prepared to share though, so instead he simply shrugged a little and looked down at Alistair's chest, where he let one of his fingertips trail down over that muscled expanse.

Slowly, his hand wandered further down, until he brushed against _something_, and whenever Alistair's breath hitched, Zevran found himself drawn to 'accidentally' brush over it again. Then his fingers wrapped around Alistair's length, squeezed just a little. Alistair gasped, and he leaned back a little more, his eyes closing for a moment. With the heat and the water around him, Zevran's hand would feel very different, and slowly, Zevran found a pace he liked.

Alistair moaned softly, responding to him _immediately_. There was never any question when it came to something physical like this; Alistair needed it, and it was easy enough for Zevran to give. He could do this, help ease that aching loneliness he knew the Warden was under. He squeezed just a little more, coaxing Alistair into arching slightly, into pressing himself more firmly against Zevran's hand, wringing every slight gasp and breathy moan--

"Z-Zev..." Alistair gritted his teeth, his hands gripping the sides of the tub as he tried to focus. Zevran slowed only a little, looking up at him. "Zev... What-- Maker, Zev-- what does it ... feel like?" Those hazel eyes were clouded over with arousal, and Zevran had to admit, it was hard not to simply push him back, to urge his hips enough out of the water that Zevran could draw him into his mouth. But Alistair had his curiosity now, had him wondering what exactly he was talking about.

"What does what feel like?" He studied the Warden, watching the way Alistair drew his shuddering breaths; heat spiraled through Zevran, made him _ache_ for the Warden.

"When..." There was a dark blush on Alistair's face, and Zevran was certain that it had nothing to do with the heat of the water or the fire. "Whenever I ... When I'm--" The blush somehow darkened, and Zevran's hand slowed a little more as he suddenly realized _where_ this was going. "When I'm inside of you," it was breathed out in a rush, all of the sounds blending into something just shy of a single word. Zevran's hand stilled, and Alistair, still gasping, looked at him, those hazel eyes guileless, innocent.

A smile curved Zevran's lips then, and he leaned up, stretching so that his lips touched Alistair's throat. Alistair made a soft noise, and Zevran murmured, "The easiest way would be to _show_ you."

Alistair was trembling, whether from arousal or from the suggestion Zevran couldn't tell, but then he swallowed and nodded slightly. "C-Can you?" He shifted slightly in Zevran's lap, and the elf stilled, his amusement at the idea evaporating. It was the tattoo conversation all over again; when would he learn to stop offering things that he didn't plan on neccessarily _doing_? Was there an easy way to dissuade him of this? Did Zevran _want_ to talk him out of it? It was the last question that pressed most heavily on him, that shocked him.

He hesitated, and _never_ had he been so grateful to hear a knock at the door. Alistair and Zevran both jumped, having been so wrapped up in one another that they hadn't even heard anyone approaching the room. Luthanuel's voice was low and muffled as it carried through the door, "Ser? Warden Commander, the first of your guests have arrived."

"I'll be out in a moment," Alistair called back, and to his credit, his voice didn't tremble or crack. He stood and Zevran watched the Warden dry off and dress, propping his head up on the edge of the tub. "Who is it out there?" Alistair suddenly asked, apparently trying to decide how formal he should go.

"General Oghren, ser, as well as Bann Teagan."

Alistair's eyebrows raised, and he glanced over at Zevran, who shrugged a little. "You told me to invite whoever I liked," the elf defended with, not entirely certain what the look was for. Alistair sighed, but a smile was on his face as he left, using the key to lock the room behind him. Zevran frowned as he left, and then he glanced back over at the bar of soap. Funny how something so insignificant carried such a weight.


	3. The Masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I couldn't resist. I did dress a few of the characters up as someone specific, and bonus points to anyone who recognizes who is dressed as whom! A clue, the dressed up characters are: Alistair, Luthanuel, Anora, and Zevran. Just leave your guesses in a review, and I'll reveal the answers in the notes of the next chapter! And finally, the scene that everyone has been asking for... it's here. It's in this chapter. Enjoy.

"Ser, you look fine." Luthanuel's voice was firm, his tone clearly tired of having to tell the Warden Commander this _again_. To be fair, Alistair supposed he was passable, glancing at his reflection with an appraising eye. His room had the only large mirror in it, much to his disgust, and despite numerous attempts to have it relocated, Zevran would only have it brought back, frowning and saying that it was part of the furniture set.

Zevran _must_ have picked out the outfit, never mind the fact that Luthanuel was the one who brought it up; _only_ Zevran would have dressed him up as some Dalish hero. Alistair didn't even know this hero's name, only that he apparently wore knee high leather boots, cream leggings, and a green tunic. There was more to the costume, but Alistair was more than just a little certain that the hat wasn't going to stay on. How did anyone wear a pointed cap that fell down to about mid-back? And _furthermore_, where did this costume even come from?

He fiddled with the cuffs a little longer, trying to argue down the arm guards that apparently were part of his dress. Luthanuel was merciless though, pressing the point with the simple fact that the costume was incomplete without them. Alistair looked at himself again, trying to decide if he was actually going to be brave enough to go out like this-- he could just imagine Teagan's, _Oghren's_ reaction to seeing him. He swallowed, and then he committed, shoving the hat on his head, pulling it down so cover the tips of his ears. He made a very large elf.

He frowned a little, then looked at Luthanuel; really _looked_ at him. The youth was wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up into thick cuffs, with a looser black shirt over it; his black pants were unusual, fitting closely from the knees down, but having a single large flare along the side of his thighs. Alistair raised an eyebrow, and Luthanuel blushed just slightly, a grin on his face.

"Who are you dressed as?" Alistair couldn't help but stare, watching the way Luthanuel's braid moved whenever he shook his head.

"Sorry, ser. We're not supposed to say; everyone is supposed to guess." Luthanuel's grin widened just a little whenever Alistair started to press him, and he held up a hand. "Zevran's orders."

Alistair groaned, reaching up to rub his hand over his face. "Of course it is," he muttered, and then he sighed, waving Luthanuel toward the door. "Let's go then." He took the narrow green mask from Luthanuel, and he put it over his eyes, wondering if everyone had one that matched their costume.

* * *

It wasn't exactly as Zevran had originally imagined, or maybe it was just that he couldn't stop hearing Alistair's question, couldn't stop reliving that little catch in the Warden's voice, couldn't stop himself from thinking about it, over and over again. He drained his wine glass and toyed with it, twirling the narrow stem between his fingertips as he looked over the room.

There were swaths of fabric hanging all over the open room, purple and gold, green and red, and while the decorations were no where _near_ what they would have been in Antiva, they served their purpose well, shocking several of the Wardens, and even some of the other guests. Only Leliana had exchanged looks with him, had smiled, had nodded, letting him know that _she_ understood, even if no one else did. He blew out a deep breath and turned around, his dark eyes seeking out a specific countertop, one that was being used as a place to hold all of the wine and ale for the evening.

It was more or less abandoned, alone in the corner of the room as it was, and Zevran slipped away to it gratefully, reaching behind it for the bottle he'd stashed there earlier. He had spied an absolute _gem_ of wine in the bottles being selected for the party, and he had decided that no one would miss the one bottle.

Now that he'd had a few glasses already, that one bottle was beginning to look exceptionally good. Perhaps if he had enough, he would be able to convince himself that he was back in Antiva, that this small gathering was _just_ as enjoyable as any of the ones he'd attended back home. It was going to take a lot of wine to manage that, he supposed.

"Elf!"

Zevran's eyes closed for just a moment, his hands stilling from the process of opening the wine bottle. He barely repressed a soft sigh before he turned, leaning against the countertop, the wine bottle hidden behind him. "Oghren!" he called back, purposely matching Oghren's shout with his own, a little grin on his lips.

Oghren swaggered-- or was it stumbled?-- into the room, his hand tight around a heavy flask. He drank from it, and just that brief moment of the flask being open was enough for Zevran to cough, the thick scent of Oghren's favored brew a little strong in his nose. "I never-- I never figured _you_ of all blighters to stay here." The dwarf scrabbled into one of the chairs, and Zevran pretended not to notice that Oghren's feet didn't quite touch the floor.

"Oh?" he asked, politely. He resumed opening the wine bottle; Oghren had his own flask to drink out of. That meant he'd leave the wine alone until the ale was gone. "Why," the cork finally popped free, "do you say that?" He lifted the bottle, his eyes closing for a heartbeat as he let the scent of the drink drown out the stench of Oghren's ale.

"Figured you'd run off to Antiva." Bushy red eyebrows waggled, and Zevran couldn't help but grin. After so long traveling with the dwarf, there was a grudging respect between them. A camaraderie that they slipped back into easily enough, no matter how many months it had been since they'd last spoken. General Oghren wasn't much for writing letters, after all.

"To be fair," Zevran's voice was light as he refilled his wine glass, "I didn't expect to still be here either." He shook the glass just enough to make the burgundy liquid swirl, make it coat the inside of the glass. He lifted it to his lips, tasting it slowly, letting it rest on his tongue for a moment before he swallowed.

A belch from Oghren, and then the dwarf was leaning forward, his cheeks bright red from the ale. "Why _did_ you stay? No, wait, don't tell me." He slapped one hand against his knee, his grin widening. "You're still trying to convince our little pike-twirler that to... what's the phrase?" Another swig, and then Oghren nodded, "Right! Hop the border. That's it." He nodded again, clearly proud of himself for remembering it. Honestly, Zevran was surprised that he did.

"No," he said slowly, looking down in his wine. A moment passed and then Zevran took his bottle and glass, stepped off to the side and added, just as Oghren took a drink, "Managed that easily enough." His own smile was wicked.

The dwarf both coughed and snorted at the same time, sending a repulsive mixture of ale and Maker only knew what else all over the spot that Zevran had just been standing in. The Antivan drew his bottle a little closer, protectively, but didn't let his smug grin slip. Oghren stared at him for a minute more, then a wide grin broke out over his own face, and he _howled_ with laughter. He jabbed a finger toward Zevran, still cackling, and managed, "I _knew_ it! He claimed that he liked women, but I _knew_. Little pike-twirler."

* * *

The music was rather subdued, at least for the moment. Alistair couldn't help noticing that the musicians were being kept well supplied with wine, something almost guaranteed that before long, they would be getting more ... enthusiastic. Wine was flowing freely throughout the room, actually, and almost everyone was laughing. And, despite having been there for a while, Alistair had _yet_ to see his Antivan, to find Zevran in the small crowd of people. Teagan had come by and spoke, as had Ser Cauthrien and Oghren, but still no sign of Zevran yet.

Leliana and someone, one of the Wardens Alistair figured, were on the dance floor, a striking pair. Clearly, they had both embraced the masquerade, Leliana with a painted face and her partner with a white mask that bore no expression. Long purple feathers were woven into Leliana's hair, and Alistair found himself almost entranced, watching her dance with an effortless ease.

"She is lovely, is she not?" The voice was soft, the coldness warmed slightly by the wine in her hand. Anora was immediately recognizable, even with her long hair down, it curled at the ends so that it bounced with every move she made. The narrow mask over her eyes did nothing to hide her sharp gaze, which was focused on Alistair. He smiled and motioned toward one of the chairs, offering her a seat. She sank down, the pink silk of her gown glinting in the light, drawing his eyes for a moment from the redhead still laughing and twirling on the dance floor.

Anora looked beautiful, her expression softened from the good cheer in the room, from having a few months of relative peace after so long of constant fear. She wore a full-bottomed skirt that seemed to consist of at least three layers of fabric, including darker pink sash that only fell far enough down to cup her--

Alistair quickly lifted his eyes from her hips, not allowing himself to complete the thought. Instead, he focused on how much younger she looked, with the puffy sleeves that just covered her shoulders. He'd never seen her with her hair down, and with the tiny crown sitting slightly askew on top of her head, she looked rather charming, gentle even.

"Leliana always manages to look lovely," he finally said, a smile on his face, and Anora laughed, nodding her agreement. Her fingers were a little tight around the wine goblet, and Alistair arched an eyebrow at that curiously. "Are you well?"

She offered him a smile that didn't reach her eyes-- her queen smile-- and she nodded slowly. "I am well enough; thank you. This is... quite enjoyable, honestly." She looked back out over the dance floor, and then she stood, her hands folding in front of her as she did. Alistair, seeing where her eyes were, stood as well, holding out one hand to her.

"A dance, my Queen?"

Her eyes widened, and then her smile did, finally lighting her whole face. He had never seen her enjoying herself this much, and as she took his hand, he led her away from the tables, onto the open floor. Slowly, he drew her close, one of his arms wrapping around her waist, the other holding her hand out. The weight of her hand against his shoulder was strange, and Alistair couldn't help but chuckle as he realized how long it had been since he had danced this way.

Anora's head tilted just slightly, encouraging him to share his amusement, and he leaned forward, just enough that she would be able to hear him over the music.

* * *

Zevran was laughing, his glass still held easily in one of his hands as he looked past the dwarf toward his green-clad Warden, one of the easiest people to spot in the crowd, with that green hat. His grin widened for just a moment, and then he noticed _who_ Alistair was with. Even with her hair down and a narrow mask across her eyes, Anora was unmistakable. She was a cloud of pink silk, laughing and twirling on the dance floor in Alistair's arms as the Warden offered her his goofy grin, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. Very carefully, the Antivan sat his glass down, and he swallowed, his eyes narrowing as he felt something unfamiliar beginning to build inside of him.

_"Zev... What-- Maker, Zev-- what does it ... feel like?"_

A shiver ran down Zevran's back, and he quickly drank the last in his glass before pouring another. He'd lost count now of how many he'd had, but it wasn't enough yet to get Alistair's words out of the Antivan's ears. They'd been there now for what felt like a lifetime, and Zevran was sure they were going to stay there until something gave between them. He could faintly hear Oghren talking, but he wasn't listening to the dwarf.

He _needed_ this as much as Alistair did; whatever it was. Ferelden had infected him, gotten into his blood through a vessel that was dancing and laughing and holding the queen easily in his arms. Zevran's teeth gritted slightly, and he blew out a deep breath before simply standing and walking, heading toward the dance floor. Oghren called out after him, but Zevran ignored him.

_"Whenever I ... When I'm--"_

The music drew to an end just as Zevran arrived, and when Alistair turned and saw him, Zevran was taken aback by the _look_ on the Warden's face. Naked hunger, tempered with... something. Something that Zevran was not entirely certain had ever been directed at him. It was enough to make him stop walking, to simply stare back, ignoring the new song being struck up by the musicians. Alistair excused himself from Anora and headed over toward Zevran, making his breath catch.

Alistair nodded toward the hall, his eyes glittering almost dangerously. It sent a shiver down Zevran's spine, made him _ache_, to see that sort of look directed at him from someone like Alistair. He had to admit, seducing innocents was not normally his thing; apparently, Grey Wardens were his exception to that.

_"When I'm _ _ **inside ** _ _of you."_

Watching Alistair go, Zevran hesitated for only a moment, just long enough to cast a glance back toward the room. By now, the wine had soaked into most of the party-goers, and no one seemed to so much as notice either the Warden Commander or his lover. He spun on his heel and followed, ducking out of the room and into the hall. Alistair was leaning against the wall in the stairwell, and Zevran felt his mouth go dry.

The Warden had _no_ idea what he did to the Antivan, looking at him with such an innocent expression, and when Zevran stepped so close to him, he could _feel_ how it affected Alistair. His own eyes closed for just a moment, and Alistair took advantage of it, dipping down to press a kiss against Zevran's lips. The instant he drew back, Zevran whispered against his ear, "Do you still want to?" The Antivan didn't have to clarify what he was talking about; it must have been on both of their minds the whole evening.

Alistair's answer was breathless, but from arousal or nerves, Zevran wasn't sure. "Can you?"

* * *

Zevran was over the top, as always, his long blond hair tucked back into a thick ponytail, earrings glittering in the flickering light of the torches. He was wearing a white top with a golden embroidered vest over it, the designs so intricate that they seemed to blend together, a spiderweb of dark goldenrod with the faintest hint of black peeking between them. The black pants didn't help Alistair's situation, given how they clung to the Antivan, wrapping his thighs and calves like a second skin.

He gasped as Zevran pinned him against the wall, his eyes rolling up to look at the ceiling as he felt the Antivan pulling on his belt, as he felt the weight of one of Zevran's thighs pressing between his legs. He couldn't breathe, couldn't _think_, and when Zevran's lips captured his own, Alistair tasted the sharp tang of the wine. He made a low noise, breaking away from the kiss long enough to ask softly, "Z-Zev?"

His voice seemed to steady the Antivan, causing those dark eyes to lift and lock on his face. His chest tightened, and heat flooded through him at the sight of _Zevran_, cool and in-control Zevran, cheeks flushed, lips parted, the slightest hint of sweat shining on his skin. It was incredible, a look Alistair had been aching to see on his lover for far longer than he cared to admit. He drew another deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to convince himself that he was strong enough to push off of the wall, to gather Zevran into his arms and bolt for his rooms, leaving the risky spot in the stairwell for a more adventurous couple.

Zevran's lips touched his neck, and then Alistair had grabbed him, fingers wrapped around the Antivan's wrist, dragging him the rest of the way up the stairs and then down the hall, stopping only long enough to unlock his door. He had scarcely got them both inside and the door locked when he heard the soft sound of clothing hitting the floor, and he turned slowly, his mouth going dry at the sight of Zevran so casually shedding his costume. The pile of black and gold and white shimmered in the light, pooled around the Antivan's feet, and Alistair swallowed thickly before he followed suit, stripping off his already unbuckled belt, the green tunic hitting the ground immediately after.

His fingers were on his pants when Zevran batted his hands away and took over the job, kneeling in front of him, _something_ odd in his expression as he slowly pulled the trousers down. Slender fingers trailed down Alistair's thighs-- an act that had taken quite a bit of getting used to-- and then he was tugging Alistair's feet up, one at a time to peel the pants all the way off. When Alistair was completely stripped, Zevran stood and pushed him back on the bed, crawling on top of him in almost the same motion. Alistair gasped at the feeling of the Antivan sitting _on_ him, at the feel of the weight and pressure, and that _slight_ rocking motion that Zevran did--

"M-Maker, Zev," Alistair whispered, his eyes falling closed as he instinctively pressed his hips up into the movement. Zevran made a low noise, and then he was leaning down over Alistair, lips and teeth nipping-- _biting_ a trail of blistering heat down his throat, over his collar. The weight on him slid further back, and he could feel himself rubbing over Zevran's stomach, the slight ridges of the muscles creating a most pleasant sensation as Zevran licked and bit and sucked a sharp trail down Alistair's chest. The Antivan was being so rough that Alistair could _feel _bruises forming, and he didn't care. Another bite, another sharp suck and Alistair was arching a little off of the bed, his hands lifting to catch Zevran by the shoulders, wanting to move them, needing to do _something_.

But Zevran's eyes flashed and Alistair was suddenly struggling as the Antivan pressed both of his wrists into the bed, a predatory look on his face. Alistair could hardly breathe, looking up at Zevran with this expression so prominent. Slowly, Zevran resettled on top of Alistair, his weight once more heavy against the Warden's length, and Alistair was moaning, lifting into the pressure again, unable to stop himself. Zevran leaned down over him, until their lips were not even a full inch apart; when Zevran licked his lips, his tongue touched Alistair's mouth as well, making the Warden try to lift his head, try to close the last distance between them.

Zevran leaned back, out of reach, returning to hover tantalizingly close only after Alistair made a soft whining sound and let his head fall back against the bed. The pressure on his wrists was getting to be unbearable, bordering on the thin line between simple pressure and pain. He squirmed, but immediately stilled as he realized that every move he made seemed to make Zevran hold him more tightly, prevent him from moving further. He dragged in another deep breath, and when he looked up at Zevran, he lifted his hips into the pressure there.

"Zev," he whispered, and Zevran seemed to take pity on him, leaning down enough to press a soft kiss against Alistair's lips. The slightest hint of tongue touched his mouth and then the Antivan was leaning back again, clearly trying to calm himself.

"Did you mean it?" The question was asked so low that Alistair wasn't sure that Zevran had spoken at all. But the intensity of that gaze assured him that the Antivan had, and Alistair swallowed before he nodded slowly. "You really want this? You want _me_ inside of you?" Wrists were stretched out over Alistair's head so that one of Zevran's hands was free to touch the side of the Warden's face. Alistair nodded again, biting his lower lip as he did.

"Zevran... I... I want you. I--"

The Antivan's lips were hard against his own, his tongue demanding, his hand sliding around to cup the nape of Alistair's neck in his palm. Zevran rubbed against Alistair again, teasing him, making the Warden moan into the kiss. _Slowly_, Zev drew back then, his teeth pulling Alistair's bottom lip for just a moment before letting it go with a slight 'pop.' His dark eyes cut across the room toward the mirror, and then he let the Warden go.

"Get comfortable," Zevran murmured, and he retrieved the oil from the nightstand. He set it on the edge of the bed, giving Alistair one more smouldering look before he walked over to the mirror and moved it. Alistair rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one arm, watching the Antivan curiously as he re-angled how the mirror was against the wall. Alistair stared at himself in it for a moment, and when Zevran came back, Alistair reached for him.

Zevran batted his hand away though, instead moving immediately stretch out behind the Warden, so that their bodies were flush against one another. Alistair turned his head, trying to look at the Antivan, but two of Zevran's fingers redirected his gaze to the mirror. A dark blush lit Alistair's face as he realized that Zevran was planning on Alistair _watching_ them both; he could see Zevran behind him, watch as Zevran's mouth found somewhere on Alistair's shoulder to lick, somewhere to bite. One of the Antivan's hands moved down to catch Alistair's thigh, moving his leg so that his foot was flat on the bed, forcing his knee up toward the ceiling.

Another kiss on Alistair's back, and then Zevran slid one of his arms along the Warden's, covering one of Alistair's hands with his own, guiding it down between Alistair's legs. He flushed darkly, tried to avert his face from looking in the mirror at himself, but Zevran was unyielding, not letting him move an inch.

"Do it," the Antivan purred in his ear, his breathy voice low. "I want to see you. I want to see _this_."

Slowly, Alistair's eyes returned to the mirror, and he bit his lower lip as he moved his hand over himself, feeling Zevran's gaze on him. Then Zevran's hands both disappeared from his view in the mirror, and there was just a moment before Alistair's breathing hitched-- he could feel a slick fingertip pressing into him. Zevran's teeth were in his shoulder, and Alistair was gasping, trying to catch his breath, trying to keep his world from spinning.

It didn't hurt as bad as Alistair knew it could; not yet anyway. He'd done this much before on his own, after seeing how Zevran did it. It had started a few days ago, when he'd been in the room alone, and curiosity had gotten the better of him. Strange as it had felt, he'd done it again, and then again, and now, with Zevran so hard against him, his finger pressing _into_ Alistair, the Warden was glad that he'd tried it on his own first. It gave him a moment, let him focus on the feel of his own hand over his length; no matter how familiar that sensation was, it was suddenly _very_ different with Zevran's eyes on him, the feel of the Antivan flush against him.

"Zev..." Alistair moaned as the finger was pulled out, and then two pressed in. His hand tightened, jerked more sharply, and he could _feel_ Zevran's breathing speeding up. The teeth in his shoulder let go, and instead, Zevran's tongue touched Alistair's earlobe. Unable to look away, Alistair kept his eyes focused on the mirror, on Zevran's face as he continued stretching the Warden. Alistair's hand tightened again, and he whimpered. He wasn't really certain how long he was going to last like this, on such display, with Zevran pressing--

The fingers slid out, and Zevran's teeth pulled a little on Alistair's earlobe just as the touch returned, this time bigger-- three fingers? Alistair moaned lowly, his voice ragged, sweat beading up on him more heavily as he struggled to keep moving, to keep his leg where Zevran had positioned it, to keep his hips tilted exactly as they were, giving Zevran access to _all_ of him. The stretching feeling was more obvious now, as this wasn't something that Alistair had tried himself; the most he'd managed was two.

He moaned, and then Zevran was whispering softly, "Faster, Alistair. I want to _see_ you do this for me," and Alistair's breath was catching in his throat. He couldn't think, couldn't _breathe_, not with Zevran so demanding behind him, with Zevran _ordering_ him to keep his hand moving, to make himself--

Then one of those fingers found _something_ inside of him, some spot that they stroked over, and Alistair jerked, the cry torn from his lips as his hand squeezed almost painfully tight over him. Zevran was relentless, his fingers pushing over that spot, making Alistair moan desperately, his voice the barest thread of sound as his world shattered around him. When it was all over, he was shivering, gasping for air, and Zevran was pulling his fingers out, running his tongue down Alistair's back.

Then Alistair felt Zevran tugging him over, away from the wet spot he'd just made. He made a low noise as he was guided to his knees, as Zevran nudged his legs enough apart to kneel behind him. His flush darkened as he looked up and realized that they were alongside the mirror, where they could _see_ as Zevran spread the oil over his length, as he gently positioned himself. Alistair tilted his hips into the motion; he couldn't back out, not now, not having_ seen_ how aroused Zevran was, how much he _wanted_ this.

But then Zevran was pushing into him, and Alistair was crying out, his eyes squeezing closed at the feel of something much bigger than fingers pushing into him. Zevran's hands were on him, one on his shoulder, the other on his back, and the Antivan was leaning over him, whispering soothingly in his ear, telling him that it wouldn't be so bad, that it would get better. _Breathe_.

Alistair felt the pinpricks of something in the backs of his eyes, and he drew another shuddering breath as he tried to brace himself, tried to convince himself to relax around the Antivan, to _let_ him in. By the time Zevran was completely inside of him, Alistair's arms had given out, and he was pressed into the bed, desperately trying not to grit his teeth. Another moment, then two, and Zevran stayed perfectly still, pressing soft kisses onto Alistair's back, his hand rubbing there gently, trying to coax Alistair into relaxing.

And then his hand slid along the Warden's hip, down and around until he found Alistair's length, wrapped around it, pulling slowly, teasingly. Alistair whimpered against the feeling, and then, as he felt himself hardening under Zevran's touch, he moaned lowly, muffled in the blankets. His head lifted and his eyes opened, letting him look up at Zevran in the mirror, who was slowly squeezing his shoulder, his attention focused _solely_ on the Warden. It was his expression that did the most for Alistair; a tender combination of affection and concern, the look of a man who would do _anything_ for someone.

He felt a tightness in his chest, and he felt himself pressing into Zevran's hand, his body responding no matter how much Alistair had been sure that he never would. He was on his knees, Zevran all the way _inside _of him, the Antivan's hand on Alistair's length, squeezing and pulling, stroking _exactly_ the way Alistair did. He shivered again, and then Alistair found himself pressing back up again, this time into Zevran's hips, encouraging him. He wanted to feel it, to have Zevran take him this way.

The Antivan pulled a little ways out before pushing back in, and Alistair groaned darkly, pleasure evident in his voice. There was still pain in the motion; no doubt about it. But it was manageable. It could be pushed back under the pleasure, the feeling of Zevran rubbing right over _that_ spot--

"Please, Zevran... Maker's **breath**, Zev, _please_," Alistair couldn't help it, couldn't stop himself from begging. He wanted to feel Zevran take him. His back arched, and when Zevran began moving a little more, a little faster, Alistair moaned, his hands finding fistfuls of the blankets under him to squeeze. "Zevran!"

Zevran's didn't speed up further, just kept his rhythm, leaning back as far as he could and still keep a hand wrapped around Alistair, still keep stroking him. Alistair's gaze met with Zevran's in the mirror, and Alistair was whimpering, _begging_ for Zevran to _move_. The pain was completely gone, and Alistair was trembling, barely able to push himself up more on his arms so that he wasn't face first in the bed. He hesitated for just a moment, and then he was pressing back, trying to convince Zevran that he _needed_ it, needed for Zevran to keep moving, to move faster, if anything.

The hand around him squeezed, and Alistair cried out, his eyes closing at the feel of Zevran's fingers digging into his shoulder, the feel of the Antivan's hand tight around him. He gasped for another moment, and then Alistair felt himself tightening, felt his body tensing and he was rapidly being pushed from the point of so-close to the point of can't-stop, with no time in between to say _anything_. Instead, he simply moaned again as he spilled, the sound a strangled mixture of the moan and a sob, a _plea_ for Zevran to--

Those hips slammed into him one more time, and then he could _feel_ it; his eyes flew open at the sensation of Zevran's release inside him, so sudden, so _hard_. He dragged in shuddering breaths, and the two of them stayed like that for several minutes, not moving, hardly breathing. Then, very slowly, Zevran pulled out, his hands light on Alistair's hips as he held the Warden still. Alistair collapsed, face-first into the blankets, not even caring that he was in his own wet spot.

Then Zevran's hands touched him, coaxed him to roll over, to let the Antivan gently clean him up with a wet washcloth that Alistair had no idea was even in his room. Zevran cleaned himself up as well, and then the rag was seemingly gone, and Zevran was drawing Alistair to him, his arms wrapping around the Warden's shoulders. There were four deep bruises on Alistair's shoulder-- from Zevran's fingers-- and Zevran lightly touched them, studying them. On top of that, there were all manner of bite marks and bright red blossoms of color splattered over Alistair's torso, and yet, Alistair had _never_ felt as good as he did right then.

He pressed his face against Zevran's chest, his eyes falling closed for a moment. Zevran held him, and then finally, he asked, "Alistair?" Alistair made a soft noise, which the Antivan clearly took as a response, because he continued then with, "I ... I did not hurt you, did I?" His voice was very quiet, almost shy, and Alistair opened his eyes to look up at him, a little grin on his face.

"Nah," he said, rubbing his face against Zevran's torso, breathing in deeply. Somehow, even as sweaty as he had gotten, Zevran still smelled very faintly of vanilla. Of fresh-cut hay. It was odd, but Alistair was rapidly finding himself quite attached to it. "Might be sore tomorrow though."

Zevran chuckled softly, and Alistair wrapped his arms around the Antivan's waist, holding him close. "Probably," Zevran agreed, one of his hands moving to tangle in the blond hair. Alistair sighed happily, and as he settled down, Zevran shifted just enough to pull the blankets over them both. A moment of quiet, and then a very soft kiss was placed against the top of Alistair's head.


	4. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three of the four costumes were correctly guessed! Alistair was dressed as Link (specfically, the Link from the Wii game, "Twilight Princess"), Anora was Princess Peach (from any of the Mario games; fun fact, even though Cauthrien didn't actually appear in that chapter, I insist that she was dressed as Daisy), and Zevran was Balthier from Final Fantasy 12. The one character who stumped everyone was Luthanuel, who was dressed as Duo Maxwell from Gundam Wing (my original slash fandom, oh good times).
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed reading this story, please remember to **review **(constructive criticism welcome). Enjoy the ending!

This time, Zevran was the one to wake, the bed far colder than it should have been with two people in it. He awakened suddenly, lacking the momentary disorientation that so commonly afflicted his bed partner. Dark eyes opened and darted from side to side, his fingers tense and ready to reach for a weapon at the first sign of anything wrong, but the room was quiet, still. The fireplace was dark, the coals banked and waiting for someone to come and stir them. He relaxed slowly, sitting up in the bed, the blankets pooling around his hips. Something caught his attention, and he reached out a hand to lightly touch the discoloration on the blanket.

His fingertips just barely brushed over it, and he couldn't stop the slow smile from crossing his face. He was suddenly quite glad that Alistair _wasn't_ there to see it; wouldn't do for the Warden to catch him with such a foolish grin on his face. Purposely, he turned away, located the water basin in the room, and by the time he had rinsed his face and dressed, he had his face schooled back into the normal, supremely confident mask he favored. Alistair was a terrible influence, as Zevran was beginning to have trouble not matching the Warden's goofy expressions.

The hall was quiet as Zevran slipped down it, instinctively stepping as softly as he could. It was still early; most of the keep would be still asleep, and honestly, it surprised him that Alistair wasn't. It didn't bode well, given their latest... encounter. Zevran swallowed, pointedly ignoring his slight headache-- he'd had too much wine the night before-- and he stopped moving only whenever he heard a faint rustling from the room with Alistair's desk. No amount of persuasion could convince Alistair to move his papers into his rooms; he insisted that they stay in the desk in the small library on the second floor. Claimed he liked the view.

He was silent as he opened the door, keeping his hand on the knob in order to muffle its noise. Sunlight streamed in the window, wrapping around the Warden sitting at the desk, papers in his hands as he read over them, a quill sitting just beside them, which he periodically picked up to make a note or two on the paper under his hand. He didn't notice the door opening. Zevran hesitated only a moment, then very carefully shut the door, not allowing it to make a sound. He didn't lock it, knowing that the noise of the lock would alert Alistair to his presence.

Instead, he very slowly crossed the room, trusting Alistair's attention to remain on the papers in front of him. Much to his delight, the Warden didn't look up, and soon Zevran was behind him, reading over his shoulder, amused to see that Alistair had only just gotten around to reading some notes that Zevran had left for him over two weeks prior. Another moment passed, and then Zevran leaned forward, his arms firm as he locked them over the Warden's torso, trapping Alistair's arms against his body as Zevran licked his neck.

"What _are_ you doing?" Zevran asked, as though he didn't know. Alistair jerked under him, then, upon hearing his voice, breathed out a deep sigh of relief. Laughing weakly, the Warden leaned back into the embrace, tilting his head up to look at Zevran. The Antivan allowed a small, affectionate smile.

"Trying to get work done," Alistair answered, wriggling around until Zevran's arms loosened and the Warden could get one of his own hands back down and around to touch the Antivan's thigh. Dark eyes closed for just a moment, and then Zevran felt Alistair inch the chair back a little. He reached for Zevran, pulling the Antivan down into his lap. The proximity was instinctive for Alistair, Zevran realized as Alistair wrapped an arm around his waist. After nearly two years of close contact with his fellow Warden, with _her_, Alistair needed the touch.

It caused a tightness in Zevran's chest, a feeling he was more used to associating with dark and torture than with sunlight and a Warden pulling him into his lap. He swallowed, looking down at Alistair, his arms settling easily over the Warden's shoulders. One of his hands lightly brushed the backs of his fingers over the slight stubble-- Alistair hadn't shaved yet-- and then Zevran moved to comb those fingers through Alistair's growing blond hair.

"What sort of work?" Zevran's voice was light, despite the unusual feeling, and he quickly redirected his attention, twisting around as though he were going to grab some of those papers.

Alistair stopped him though, holding him tight. "Oh, please don't. I need a break." He trailed one hand up Zevran's back, and the Antivan offered him a little grin.

"Do you now? I'm sure I could think of... something to entertain you."

Alistair returned the grin, and Zevran couldn't help but stare, still, after so long of travel with the Warden, amazed at how _open_ he was, how the grin lit his entire face. Zevran didn't think he'd ever get used to that, no matter how many times he saw it. "What were you thinking of precisely?"

The Antivan's grin widened, and then he eased back, slipping out of Alistair's arms and kneeling on the floor in front of him. Alistair swallowed, and Zevran pressed a palm against the firmness he found there, between Alistair's thighs. The Warden blushed just a little, fascinating the Antivan, and then he decided that if they were going to do this, they were going to do this properly. He unbuckled Alistair's belt, unlaced the front of those trousers. One of Alistair's hands tangled in his hair, and he closed his eyes at the feel of it as he slowly drew out the Warden.

Zevran wrapped his hand around Alistair's length, not too firm, just the slightest touch. Enough to make the Warden lean back in the chair, to make those hazel eyes close, to make Alistair's hand tighten just a little in Zevran's hair. The Antivan made a soft noise at the feeling, and then he leaned forward enough to take Alistair into his mouth, swallowing as he slid all the way down. The Warden gasped softly, his fingers pulling on a blond lock, and Zevran's eyes closed at _that_ sensation.

For just another moment, Zevran enjoyed himself, feeling Alistair's reactions, the way muscles along his thighs tensed and relaxed to whatever rhythm the Antivan set, and then there was a knock at the door. Both Alistair and Zevran moved at the same moment, Zevran folding up to fit under the desk--- it was one with a full wooden skirt, no way to see under it from any side except for where Alistair was sitting-- and Alistair waiting just long enough for Zev to settle before he inched the chair forward again, this time sitting close enough that his stomach touched the desktop.

Before Alistair could tuck himself away, or even call for the person outside to come in, Zevran heard the door open and close-- Zevran hadn't locked it, after all. The sound was muffled, cramped under the desk as he was, but Zevran listened carefully, curious as to who it was. It wasn't until she spoke that he realized, and then, he couldn't stop the wicked expression over his face. He glanced back at Alistair, who was stammering a greeting, clearly surprised that she came in without an invitation. Zevran considered his options for only a moment, then very carefully, he respositioned himself as silently as he could.

* * *

"Alistair." Anora looked lovely, as always, her hair up, wearing something more normal than the pink gown she'd had on the night before. "Warden Rylan said I would probably find you here." She smiled at him, and Alistair managed a weak one in return.

"Y-your majesty." He was breathing hard, he knew it, but he couldn't stop it, couldn't help it. With Zevran between his legs under the desk and Anora so carefully locking the door, a strange expression on her face, he didn't know _what_ he was going to do. He could feel Zevran moving then, under the desk, and his breath caught. Only whenever the Antivan stilled did Alistair dare breathe again. "Forgive me for not standing, but--"

"Oh, no. It is fine. I am intruding on your correspondence. In truth, I only need a moment of your time, Alistair."

Alistair nodded, leaning back just a little in the chair, relaxing a hair. Perhaps he could manage this. Wouldn't _that_ impress Zevran? If he managed to handle Anora without any help at all from the Antivan? "Of course. What can I do for you?" Regrettably, the words had no more passed his lips than he learned _why_ Zevran had been moving, rearranging himself under the desk. He felt slender fingers wrapping around him, and he stiffened, his spine suddenly perfectly straight as he realized that Zevran wasn't planning on _stopping_. Those fingers were perfect, too, squeezing just enough to make Alistair want to lift his hips into the motion.

It wasn't that Anora could _do_ anything to either of them, given that Alistair was a Warden, and if push came to shove, he could claim Right of Conscription on Zevran to keep the Antivan out of her clutches. He felt his heart stop at the thought of putting Zevran through a Joining, and he held on to that, using that fear to keep himself from moving, from moaning as wet heat replaced fingers.

"Well, to be honest, we have a situation at Amaranthine." Anora was wringing her hands, clearly feeling comfortable enough in front of Alistair to let him see how much this 'situation' was getting to her. "Darkspawn are all over the coastlands, and we just don't have enough men to push them back. We need the Wardens in more force, keeping the peace."

Alistair nodded slowly, _trying_ to keep his attention on her, knowing that while she couldn't exactly _do_ anything, it would be horribly mortifying for her to discover that Zevran was under Alistair's desk, his lips wrapped around-- _Maker_. Zevran was going to kill him doing that sort of thing. Had that been the slightest graze of teeth? "O-Of course you do." He was quite proud of himself, keeping his voice as steady as it was. "How many do you need?"

"No, Alistair, you don't understand." Anora took another step closer, and Alistair's fingers were gripping the arm of his chair so tightly that he was white-knuckled. Zevran was beginning to move just a little faster, enough that Alistair was having trouble keeping his breath steady. "The family that took Amaranthine has requested that someone else take it over. It is," she hesitated, looking for the right word, "a disaster."

"What do you want us to do about it?" No stammer that time, and he leaned forward a little, forcibly releasing the arm of his chair and clasping his hands in front of him on the desk. Hopefully, he looked calm enough.

"I want the Wardens to take Amaranthine. An official announcement will be made within a few days, if you agree."

Alistair had to admit, his first reaction as a firm 'no.' But just as he opened his mouth to deliver it, Zevran tightened around him, sucking more firmly, making it tighter, hotter than it had been. Instead of his regretful, but firm 'no', he found himself saying softly, "_Yes_." His eyes widened as it hit him what he said, but there was no taking it back. Anora looked pleased at his response and was already waving her hand, cheerfully seeing herself out. He stayed perfectly still for another moment, Zevran still under his desk, still moving, and he felt himself tensing, _achingly_ close.

"Z-Zev..." Another long lick, another tight swallow around him, and he couldn't hold back any longer. He fell back in the chair, collapsing just after spilling into Zevran's mouth. A moment of breathing, and then he scooted the chair back, letting the Antivan slip out. Immediately, Zevran went and threw the lock, not wanting any other unwanted guests to enter. Then he came back and leaned against the desk, looking at Alistair with a smug grin-- the cat that swallowed the pigeon. Canary. Whatever.

"What was _that_, Zevran?" Alistair drew a shuddering breath, getting himself back under control. He couldn't help the little tremor in his voice, the _hurt_ on his face. He had thought that he was through being politically maneuvered, having someone else call the shots as far as where he went and who he was. He was a _Warden_, and Wardens weren't tilted, were _not_ arls. And if they took Amaranthine, that would make Alistair just that: an arl.

A moment, and then Zevran's grin faded slowly as he really studied Alistair. The Warden felt it putting him on edge; the Antivan was looking at him as though he were some sort of spoiled child, caught doing something wrong. Finally, Zevran said softly, "You're upset," as though the idea had not occurred to him that Alistair might be.

"Of _course_ I'm upset!" Alistair tucked himself back into his trousers, his hands shaking as he did. Only after he managed to buckle himself did he stand up, his eyes sparking heat as he glared at Zevran. "How could you do that to me?"

Zevran settled his hips against the desk a little more, his arms crossing in front of him as he tilted his head. "You didn't enjoy it?" he asked softly, looking down for just a moment, then lifting his eyes to look up at Alistair from under those blond lashes. Alistair was beginning to sense a pattern in how the Antivan responded to confrontation.

"Not _that_. Th-the other thing! You _knew_ that would make me say 'yes.' Didn't you?" Silence was as good as a confirmation from Zevran, and Alistair scowled, unable to stop himself. "What made you think taking Amaranthine was a good idea?"

"What makes you think taking it isn't?"

Alistair stopped, his anger flagging in face of such docile acceptance. No one else would have stood so passively, letting Alistair rage at them, and Alistair found it difficult to keep his temper flared with Zevran looking at him like that. Immediately, he spun on his heel, stalking over to the window. His hands slammed down on the window sill, and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he kept from _shaking_ Zevran, trying to get _some_ sort of reaction from the Antivan.

"If we take Amaranthine, it will make me an arl, Zevran. Wardens don't involve themselves so closely with the kingdom's politics. That will give me a voice at the Landsmeets." He didn't add that it was only a few steps away from the crown, a position that Alistair didn't want to be anywhere near.

"And without it, where do you think the Wardens will be once the darkspawn are handled?" Zevran's voice was cold, and Alistair sighed softly, knowing that the Antivan was right. That _wasn't_ what he was angry about; he _saw_ the logic in the move, knew where Zevran was going with this.

"I just... I didn't expect you to do this." Alistair leaned his forehead against the cold pane of glass, closed his eyes instead of looking at the snow falling so softly outside.

Zevran walked over then, one of his hands lightly touching Alistair's shoulder. He turned the Warden around slowly, his dark eyes unreadable as he looked up. "You think I'm like Eamon." It wasn't a question, and Alistair didn't see any point in arguing. The moment that it had happened, Zevran felt _exactly_ like Eamon, toying with him and putting him where ever he liked.

"I trusted you," Alistair replied softly, looking down at Zevran, one of his hands still on the window sill, the other falling limply beside him. "You know how I feel about politics and..." The Warden waved one of his hands, looking for a better world and failing. "Everything," he finally muttered, weakly.

Several minutes stretched between them, and then Zevran took Alistair's hand in both of his, drew him back over to the desk. The Antivan hoisted himself up, and Alistair let Zevran pull him close, let him gently place both of his hands on Alistair's hips. But when Zevran spoke, he caught Alistair's attention, making him look at the Antivan closely. "Alistair... I... I _knew_ you would come for me. When I was in Denerim."

Alistair stilled; this was the first time that Zevran had approached the subject, the first time that he had said anything beyond calling the Wardens all fools for searching for him. He watched as the Antivan looked away, his dark eyes staring down at the floor. Zevran swallowed, and Alistair reached for him without thinking, drawing him close, coaxing him into putting his head on Alistair's shoulder.

"There was no reason for me to think that, but... I knew you would. And now, I need you to have that same trust with me." Here, Zevran leaned back, reaching a hand up to touch Alistair's face, finally looking up and meeting the Warden's gaze. "You do trust my judgement, Alistair."

Alistair nodded slowly, rubbing his face against that palm for just a moment, his eyes closing. "I do trust you, Zev; I _really_ do." He sighed. "I just..." The Warden shook his head, unable to think of anything to complete that thought with. Nothing seemed appropriate. Nothing would explain the emotions running rampant through him. Finally, he changed the subject, asking softly, "If you knew I wouldn't leave you with them, why did you call me a fool after..?"

Zevran chuckled softly against him, and then he disentangled himself from Alistair. "I had _hoped_, against what I know of you, that you would be smart for once. Do not go chasing Crows again, Alistair. Now, come on. There is some sort of feast for us to attend, is there not?"

Alistair let the Antivan get almost completely away before he reached out and caught Zevran, his fingers making a light bracelet around Zevran's wrist. "Promise you won't do that again. Promise you'll talk to me before you make that sort of decision, about what's best for me." He didn't look at the Antivan as he made the request, and he knew that Zevran wasn't looking at him whenever he answered after a moment of quiet.

"Promises like that are meant to be broken, Alistair."

* * *

The 'feast' was subdued enough, with the normal seating arrangements vastly reordered to accomodate the extra guests. Anora sat at the head of the main table, Alistair immediately to her right, and Teagan to his. On her left was Ser Cauthrien, and Leliana. Zevran took a seat down close to Leliana, and Luthanuel sat across from him. Plate after plate of classic Fereldan fare was brought out, making his stomach ache for a proper meal, something with pasta and mushrooms and sweet tomato sauce, something that couldn't be eaten off of baked trenchers and with one's fingers. He and Leliana exchanged a glance, and he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was.

But he smiled and choked it down, making the polite conversation that was required whenever someone spoke to him. Truth be told, since Alistair was back on his feet and communicating again, neither Anora nor Ser Cauthrien seemed to even notice Zevran was in the room, and to be fair, the Antivan didn't mind as much as he figured he should. It wasn't like he'd been noticed before the Wardens had gotten a hold of him, after all.

First chance he got, he made his excuses and slipped away, leaving Alistair talking with Teagan, pointedly ignoring the desperate attempts Alistair made to catch his attention. He headed back to his room, the first time he'd been there in close to a week. There was some sort of plant stuck to his door, and a quick glance down the hallway showed that his wasn't the only door with one stuck to it. He peeled it off and headed in, taking one of the torches from the wall and locking the door behind him.

It was an odd looking sprig, with long narrow green leaves and small white pearls on it. They glistened in the moonlight streaming through his window. He set the torch in the holder by the door, and he set the plant on his nightstand, deciding he'd look at it more closely later. Right then, he needed to get candles lit, figure out if he could manage the fireplace on his own. It was something he'd never had to learn to do in Antiva, and Alistair had always been the one to prod the fire into life upstairs.

He shivered in the cold room, and as he worked, he couldn't help replaying the morning in his head, couldn't stop seeing that hurt expression, the betrayal that Alistair had tried to hide under his anger. It cut far more deeply than Zevran liked, than he knew it should. It wasn't like he and Alistair were... anything. The Warden just needed someone there, and Zevran was the easiest choice. Alistair knew that he didn't have to explain anything to Zevran, that Zevran didn't expect--

The knock made him jump, made him drop the torch into the fireplace. Muttering a few choice Antivan swears, Zevran snatched it out, and he moved to the door, setting it back in the holder there. He didn't say anything, just leaned against the door, and after a minute, he heard Alistair's voice.

"Zev? Zevran, I know you're in there. There's light under your door."

A faint smile curved Zevran's face, but he still didn't answer, instead just leaning against the heavy wooden door. He heard Alistair shuffle around for another minute or two, and then Alistair sighed loudly.

"Don't make me do this through the door." His voice was as low as it could be and still carry through the wood, and it brought shivers to Zevran's skin again. The last time he'd heard Alistair's voice that low--

"Zevran?"

The Antivan listened as Alistair leaned against the door too, heard the sound of Alistair's forehead gently falling against the wood.

"I'm sorry; I _do_ trust you, I really do. I was just upset because it was sudden, because we didn't get a chance to talk about it before... before it happened. Please..."

Zevran swallowed, looking down. He honestly didn't know why he was making Alistair do this. Was he just that cruel of a person? Alistair hadn't been wrong to be angry; Zevran had taken full advantage of him, tricking him into agreeing, into saying yes to something that he didn't want. The Antivan swallowed, one of his hands lifting to rest on the door handle. He waited another moment, needing to see how far he could push this, how much Alistair was determined to get his response.

"Z-Zev?" The voice cracked just slightly, and Zevran couldn't stand it then. He unlocked the door then, and pushed it open just a crack. Having done that much, he stepped back, moving to sit, cross-legged on the edge of his bed. His boots were still on, but he didn't care. He leaned over far enough to pluck the strange little plant, turning it over and over in his hands as Alistair let the door creak open. Finally, the Warden stepped in and shut the door behind him, locking it in the same motion.

They stayed like that for several more minutes, until Alistair walked over to the bed, dropping to one knee in front of where Zevran sat. The motion put him just shorter than Zevran, and the Antivan looked at him curiously, wondering where he was going with it. Alistair hesitated another moment, then said quietly, "I'm sorry, Zev."

Time in Ferelden had made Zevran soft. Not too long ago, he'd have scoffed, pushing Alistair away and telling him to leave. Honestly, not too long ago, he'd have never let Alistair in the room at all. Now, he simply sighed and reached for the Warden, gently putting one of his hands in Alistair's hair. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Alistair's head. No matter how much he needed to, he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud. He couldn't breath the words that Alistair needed to hear.

But apparently, it was enough, because after just a minute, Alistair repositioned himself to sit on the floor, leaning back against the bed, his head tilted up to look at Zevran. His brow furrowed. "Where did you get that?" he asked curiously, studying the plant that Zevran still had in his hand.

"It was on the door." Zevran handed it to him, and Alistair turned it over in his own hands for just a minute before a smile broke over his face. Zevran tilted his head.

"It's a Fereldan tradition," the Warden said with a little laugh. "Supposedly, if you find yourself under it with someone else, you're supposed to kiss them." The thought was charming, and it made even Zevran smile at it.

"Kiss them? Because they are standing under the plant with you?"

Alistair nodded and he moved then, settling only once he was on the bed's edge with Zevran. He held up the plant over their heads and very slowly, giving Zevran ample time to move if he chose, leaned in for a soft kiss. The Antivan let him, closing his eyes at how gentle the Warden was with it. When Alistair drew back finally, he handed the greenery back to Zevran, got the torch, and set to work on the fireplace.

Zevran kicked off his boots, one at a time, watching Alistair as he did. By the time Alistair had a fire going, the Antivan was sprawled out over the bed, arms folded behind his head, and he was looking up at the ceiling, holding the little sprig over his face so that he could look at it. Alistair sat on the bed beside him, and when he saw what Zevran was still looking at, he chuckled.

"Keep that up, and I'll have to keep kissing you," he murmured, leaning down to make good on his promise. Zevran smiled against his lips, and leaned up, meeting Alistair halfway. This kiss was just as soft as the first one, and when they pulled apart, Zevran handed the sprig to Alistair. "Mistletoe," the Warden said quietly, a little smile on his face. "It's called mistletoe."

Zevran nodded slowly, his hands sliding into Alistair's hair, pulling him down for another kiss, stopping just long enough to whisper, "Well, perhaps not all Fereldan traditions are so bad, eh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"I've come undone.  
> But you make sense of who I am,  
> Like puzzle pieces in your eye._
> 
> _Then I'll see your face;  
> I know I'm finally yours.  
> I find everything I thought I lost before.  
> You call my name;  
> I come to you in pieces,  
> So you can make me whole."_
> 
> _\--"Pieces," by Red._
> 
> **Disclaimer**: I own neither Dragon Age: Origins, nor "Pieces," by Red, and I make no money from these writings.  
> That being said, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you can spare just another minute or two and leave me a comment, telling me your thoughts! Even if it's just that you did/didn't like it.


End file.
